My brother in hair dreaded by despair and lack
Of food or love, crosses the street,
Against the light. We wait.
And curse and wave because he’s holding time and
we have important work to do.
He’s too familiar; it aches to see and I cut my eyes
With shame.
He was a lover from my early years who loved
To brush my hair,
He was the brother who dreamed of flying
For the navy, for anywhere
Then the favorite uncle who stirred up
Rabbit 's beat-up drama of sacred trickery,
As he cooked eggs for us.
We are each the bearer of the human tale, and
This morning it’s unbearable.
He has daughters and sons, a father and mother.
The light will change.
All fresh bearers of life will come forth as we climb into the sun.
They will.
They will.
c Joy Harjo October 13, 2004
10/13/04
10/9/04
Navigating the Warning
From eternity to never is a river
Of renegade stars
Home-starved planets
Past the stream of thinking-without-direction:
That’s where it comes from—
You’ll have no exact address in the mess of humanness
And go down in the punch of red history and earthly cowboys.
The body is a helix
Of the dreams of ancestors
Cultivate the wisdom here, in molecular funk and grease
Navigate swiftly
Beyond the scurry of the mind having a drink
With friends at the café
Beyond the limb of knowledge thick with crows
Perched on a broken overhang
Over crashing fresh waters,
Beyond time.
For Reggie
c Joy Harjo October 9, 2004 Honolulu
Of renegade stars
Home-starved planets
Past the stream of thinking-without-direction:
That’s where it comes from—
You’ll have no exact address in the mess of humanness
And go down in the punch of red history and earthly cowboys.
The body is a helix
Of the dreams of ancestors
Cultivate the wisdom here, in molecular funk and grease
Navigate swiftly
Beyond the scurry of the mind having a drink
With friends at the café
Beyond the limb of knowledge thick with crows
Perched on a broken overhang
Over crashing fresh waters,
Beyond time.
For Reggie
c Joy Harjo October 9, 2004 Honolulu
10/7/04
Shine On
Woke up this morning in a shine after being with a group of native people I know and love on the other side of this reality show. I didn't want to leave. The visit nourished me. This reality show co-starring all of us, lately seems beset by an especially nasty family of demons. They've infected the country, from our so-called leaders to smaller local bureaucrats and would-be bureaucrats who get inside our heads. They are beastly with greed and the need for attention. They infect with blindness, lack of ability to hear clearly. Lies appear to be truths.
I've had to remind myself that my name is "joy", not greed or envy or sadness or grief. If I think "love" then there's no room for any other thoughts. And it's the nature of love to connect and grow more love. If I think "revenge" or "envy" then they revenge and envy grow immense and stick their butts in my face and I can see nothing else and I'm miserable. They also have a tendency to fight, and fart particularly malodorous streams.
REPORT from my contact in Durango, Colorado: Her sister who's had heart trouble grew herself a new pathway to her heart. Her doctor has never seen anything like it. We know it's possible. We can grow ourself a peaceful nation. Heart by heart.
What does this have to do with poetry, music, and writing? It's all part of the process. What we think, so, do and are becomes the stuff of our poetry, music and writing.
And this from an interview with Cecile Pineda: “…I am viewed by people eager to claim me as a Latina writer, and this acclamation certainly makes me proud. But it is not entirely representative. My mother bore me. She was as mired in the notions of the Old World, in its rationalities, its explanations, its conventions, its certainties, and its Protestantism, as my father was a product of his Catholicism and of his own colonial past. Perhaps in the tension between the two I managed to find a voice. But more than more genetic or cultural considerations, I claim necessity. I live in a world in which 40 men control wealth equal to that of nearly 80 countries where, to maintain their hegemony, countless acts of mayhem and massacre must occur every day. This is the reality that forms and re-forms my days as it does those of all the people on this hapless planet. I do not think anymore that writing—mine or another’s—can change the world. Perhaps in their small way, writers can answer for those who are voiceless in their extreme deprivation and suffering. But at best, in the very smallest scheme, writing can provide a moment of grace, both for her who writes and him who reads, in a very dark world.”
From The Bloomsbury Review Interview September/October 2004
Check the Poetry Africa site to see what's happening there. I'll be performing there in a few weeks.
More later.
I've had to remind myself that my name is "joy", not greed or envy or sadness or grief. If I think "love" then there's no room for any other thoughts. And it's the nature of love to connect and grow more love. If I think "revenge" or "envy" then they revenge and envy grow immense and stick their butts in my face and I can see nothing else and I'm miserable. They also have a tendency to fight, and fart particularly malodorous streams.
REPORT from my contact in Durango, Colorado: Her sister who's had heart trouble grew herself a new pathway to her heart. Her doctor has never seen anything like it. We know it's possible. We can grow ourself a peaceful nation. Heart by heart.
What does this have to do with poetry, music, and writing? It's all part of the process. What we think, so, do and are becomes the stuff of our poetry, music and writing.
And this from an interview with Cecile Pineda: “…I am viewed by people eager to claim me as a Latina writer, and this acclamation certainly makes me proud. But it is not entirely representative. My mother bore me. She was as mired in the notions of the Old World, in its rationalities, its explanations, its conventions, its certainties, and its Protestantism, as my father was a product of his Catholicism and of his own colonial past. Perhaps in the tension between the two I managed to find a voice. But more than more genetic or cultural considerations, I claim necessity. I live in a world in which 40 men control wealth equal to that of nearly 80 countries where, to maintain their hegemony, countless acts of mayhem and massacre must occur every day. This is the reality that forms and re-forms my days as it does those of all the people on this hapless planet. I do not think anymore that writing—mine or another’s—can change the world. Perhaps in their small way, writers can answer for those who are voiceless in their extreme deprivation and suffering. But at best, in the very smallest scheme, writing can provide a moment of grace, both for her who writes and him who reads, in a very dark world.”
From The Bloomsbury Review Interview September/October 2004
Check the Poetry Africa site to see what's happening there. I'll be performing there in a few weeks.
More later.
10/6/04
FROM THE POWWOW FRONT, OR SHOULD I SAY BACK?
The powwow was this weekend in Honolulu. Honolulu powwows are different than Oklahoma or other smack-in-Indian-country powwows. This isn’t Indian country; it’s Hawaiian country. Most of the Indian population is from the military. And it’s strange to see a powwow arena stretched out between two banyan trees. But it was a powwow nonetheless, including an adroit Apache mc from southern California, invited head dancers and drums, a fry bread stand and several vendors arranged in the circle, including my friends Bill and Mary Tiger. I camped most of the morning until late that after noon with Bill. Mary left to teach hula after we set up the booth with their crafts and a few of my CD’s.
We had a perfect observing position, could see everyone else, including the spare arena of dancers. It was the smallest powwow in number of dancers I’d ever seen, except one I went to in Des Moines when I was a student in graduate school in Iowa in the late seventies. My friend Darlene Wind and I showed up late after visiting some friends at the Meskwaki Settlement outside Tama. We headed out to the dance floor and realized we were the only dancers, inside of a circle of non-Indian spectators who clicked away on their cameras. We were rare birds about to disappear, and we did, immediately after that dance. Here many of the dancers here appeared to be non-Indian. It doesn’t mean they weren’t Indian but these outposts far from Indian country often attract the hobbyists because they won’t be so readily identified or hassled. Mostly, we watched the Honolulu crowd as they watched the dancers, ate fry bread, visited and walked the arena to mostly gawk at the arts and crafts as they weren’t, for the most part, buying.
Bill Tiger, or Tiger’s from within a few miles of where I’m from in Oklahoma, of the same tribe and clan. He moved out to Hawaii over thirty years ago when he married a Hawaiian woman. I was impressed at how many people walked up to our booth to say hello to Tiger. He’s helped everyone in this community, and then some. Many hadn’t seen him since he’d become legally blind from the diabetes and were surprised when he didn’t immediately recognize them. The disease had also eaten on his legs and he showed me how he could now do dialysis even while sitting at the powwow, rather than forced to spend two days a week sitting in the VA hospital for treatments. So we got a chance to catch up. And stories presented themselves as we watched the crowd.
One man walked the powwow grounds dressed in his Confederate hat. We couldn’t figure out whether he was lost, or making a statement, or lonely for some part of imagined history that he had to dress up for a place in the world. Reminds me that Wilma Mankiller, I believe, told us that at the end of the procession for the opening of the National Museum of the American Indian, walking with thousands of us, native people and organizations from north to south America was a contingent of Confederate re-enactment junkies, all dressed in uniforms and hoop skirts. Their audacity at including themselves in our special moment is stunning, but occurs all the time in Indian country. That’s how this country was founded, over the nations of many who weren’t asked asked permission, or addressed respectfully. We were deemed as non-human, or less cultured (dare I say not “civilized” ?) by the interloper church or state. The appearance of the Confederates prove that perhaps nothing has changed. They still barge into our events, and we are still too polite to ask them to leave. Reminds me of why I I have such a disdain for mission-izing by the church. It's the same lack of respect.
Not far behind him was a man dressed, deliberately it seemed, as a pilgrim.
And later in the afternoon a young woman, probably a student, about 20 or 21, her dyed black hair dreaded and stylish over her beautiful pale complexion, jeans and a few silver piercings came over and asked us where she could find AIM, the American Indian Movement, in Hawaii. The question contained many absurdities, namely that you don’t go to Hawaii to look for AIM. It’s like going to Wall Street to look for Indians. And AIM is past its heyday and isn't historically about the empowerment of women. She appeared smart, fresh, and very female, and looking for AIM was the last thing she needed. They would eat up and spit out this pretty young woman who was looking for a cause to give meaning to her life. Part of my spirit told me to take her aside and ask her what it was she was really looking for, then urge her to research the organization, the history and the present reality, then to weigh it all and see what fits. I didn’t, because the other part of my spirit argued, that she wouldn’t hear me. Maybe that’s based on my last such experience, when I advised a young Vassar student during my residency there-- talked with her intensely for a few hours, trying to dissuade her from heading up to South Dakota to the Pine Ridge Reservation to help the people, until she had a better-defined reason, a plan, an invite and some contacts. She had no experience traveling, didn’t know anyone from there, and hadn’t been asked. And she appeared much less sure, and more innocently naïve than the girl at the Honolulu powwow. When she left my apartment (or should I say haunted house, but that’s another story) that night at Vassar, I realized she hadn’t heard anything I’d said. She was going anyway. She was embarking on an American dream of beautiful, elegantly rough and wise Indian warriors headed toward the sunset of history, to save them. It’s a sexy dream. That’s why I didn’t say anything to the young woman wandering at the Honolulu powwow. And would I have listened either at their age? No. But I wouldn't have wandered brazenly into another group to save them, without being asked, either.
The strange thing is though, that just as this woman asked, a biker walked up to the table, right next to her, in a jean jacked slathered with AIM logos. Now what do you make of that? "Ask and ye shall find. Knock and the door shall be opened."
Tiger then told me of the year at the powwow when a rich white woman showed up at the powwow looking for a husband. She wanted to have a baby. She had a plan alright, and was upfront about her intentions, much to the amusement of everyone. Bill and I laughed at the terrible scenario, of this woman even hitting on one of his relatives in his late teens. It’s so sad you have to laugh to survive. But what happens in the aftermath of such a haphazard scheme? In the wreckage of family and child left to all of us? Maybe I should go back and talk to that girl. This blog is my way of doing so.
**** **** **** **** **** ***** **** **** ****
The hands are held open for either giving or receiving.
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
Sitting outside the National Museum of the American Indian after a reception and viewing of the museum, the day before the opening, I run into Carlos Nakai, one of Indian country’s finest musicians. We admire the lily-filled pond, the grounds rich with native plants. It’s idyllic. We both agree that what’s missing are the junked cars, chickens, skinny rez dogs, kids running around, dried meat racks….and so on.
October 1-6, 2004 Honolulu
We had a perfect observing position, could see everyone else, including the spare arena of dancers. It was the smallest powwow in number of dancers I’d ever seen, except one I went to in Des Moines when I was a student in graduate school in Iowa in the late seventies. My friend Darlene Wind and I showed up late after visiting some friends at the Meskwaki Settlement outside Tama. We headed out to the dance floor and realized we were the only dancers, inside of a circle of non-Indian spectators who clicked away on their cameras. We were rare birds about to disappear, and we did, immediately after that dance. Here many of the dancers here appeared to be non-Indian. It doesn’t mean they weren’t Indian but these outposts far from Indian country often attract the hobbyists because they won’t be so readily identified or hassled. Mostly, we watched the Honolulu crowd as they watched the dancers, ate fry bread, visited and walked the arena to mostly gawk at the arts and crafts as they weren’t, for the most part, buying.
Bill Tiger, or Tiger’s from within a few miles of where I’m from in Oklahoma, of the same tribe and clan. He moved out to Hawaii over thirty years ago when he married a Hawaiian woman. I was impressed at how many people walked up to our booth to say hello to Tiger. He’s helped everyone in this community, and then some. Many hadn’t seen him since he’d become legally blind from the diabetes and were surprised when he didn’t immediately recognize them. The disease had also eaten on his legs and he showed me how he could now do dialysis even while sitting at the powwow, rather than forced to spend two days a week sitting in the VA hospital for treatments. So we got a chance to catch up. And stories presented themselves as we watched the crowd.
One man walked the powwow grounds dressed in his Confederate hat. We couldn’t figure out whether he was lost, or making a statement, or lonely for some part of imagined history that he had to dress up for a place in the world. Reminds me that Wilma Mankiller, I believe, told us that at the end of the procession for the opening of the National Museum of the American Indian, walking with thousands of us, native people and organizations from north to south America was a contingent of Confederate re-enactment junkies, all dressed in uniforms and hoop skirts. Their audacity at including themselves in our special moment is stunning, but occurs all the time in Indian country. That’s how this country was founded, over the nations of many who weren’t asked asked permission, or addressed respectfully. We were deemed as non-human, or less cultured (dare I say not “civilized” ?) by the interloper church or state. The appearance of the Confederates prove that perhaps nothing has changed. They still barge into our events, and we are still too polite to ask them to leave. Reminds me of why I I have such a disdain for mission-izing by the church. It's the same lack of respect.
Not far behind him was a man dressed, deliberately it seemed, as a pilgrim.
And later in the afternoon a young woman, probably a student, about 20 or 21, her dyed black hair dreaded and stylish over her beautiful pale complexion, jeans and a few silver piercings came over and asked us where she could find AIM, the American Indian Movement, in Hawaii. The question contained many absurdities, namely that you don’t go to Hawaii to look for AIM. It’s like going to Wall Street to look for Indians. And AIM is past its heyday and isn't historically about the empowerment of women. She appeared smart, fresh, and very female, and looking for AIM was the last thing she needed. They would eat up and spit out this pretty young woman who was looking for a cause to give meaning to her life. Part of my spirit told me to take her aside and ask her what it was she was really looking for, then urge her to research the organization, the history and the present reality, then to weigh it all and see what fits. I didn’t, because the other part of my spirit argued, that she wouldn’t hear me. Maybe that’s based on my last such experience, when I advised a young Vassar student during my residency there-- talked with her intensely for a few hours, trying to dissuade her from heading up to South Dakota to the Pine Ridge Reservation to help the people, until she had a better-defined reason, a plan, an invite and some contacts. She had no experience traveling, didn’t know anyone from there, and hadn’t been asked. And she appeared much less sure, and more innocently naïve than the girl at the Honolulu powwow. When she left my apartment (or should I say haunted house, but that’s another story) that night at Vassar, I realized she hadn’t heard anything I’d said. She was going anyway. She was embarking on an American dream of beautiful, elegantly rough and wise Indian warriors headed toward the sunset of history, to save them. It’s a sexy dream. That’s why I didn’t say anything to the young woman wandering at the Honolulu powwow. And would I have listened either at their age? No. But I wouldn't have wandered brazenly into another group to save them, without being asked, either.
The strange thing is though, that just as this woman asked, a biker walked up to the table, right next to her, in a jean jacked slathered with AIM logos. Now what do you make of that? "Ask and ye shall find. Knock and the door shall be opened."
Tiger then told me of the year at the powwow when a rich white woman showed up at the powwow looking for a husband. She wanted to have a baby. She had a plan alright, and was upfront about her intentions, much to the amusement of everyone. Bill and I laughed at the terrible scenario, of this woman even hitting on one of his relatives in his late teens. It’s so sad you have to laugh to survive. But what happens in the aftermath of such a haphazard scheme? In the wreckage of family and child left to all of us? Maybe I should go back and talk to that girl. This blog is my way of doing so.
**** **** **** **** **** ***** **** **** ****
The hands are held open for either giving or receiving.
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
Sitting outside the National Museum of the American Indian after a reception and viewing of the museum, the day before the opening, I run into Carlos Nakai, one of Indian country’s finest musicians. We admire the lily-filled pond, the grounds rich with native plants. It’s idyllic. We both agree that what’s missing are the junked cars, chickens, skinny rez dogs, kids running around, dried meat racks….and so on.
October 1-6, 2004 Honolulu
9/27/04
Opening of the National Museum of the American Indian
The Opening of the National Museum of the American Indian
Events occur on many levels. I was present at one of the earliest planning sessions for the National Museum of the American Indian. Then, it was an idea, a series of ideas. That we were meeting together and breathing was a miracle itself in this land of genocidal intentions and means. We helped birth the vision, or was the vision there already to be fulfilled? I wonder how that works. Could be a little of both, that is, the yearning of a spirit to be born as an architectural being, and the need of peoples to have a place of representation on that terrible, sacred land called the Mall, the body of the Capitol Building.
Last Tuesday morning we were there to cap off that dream with acknowledgment, dancing, singing with hundreds of tribal groups and organizations. We’d been preparing for this. The Mvskoke contingent was made up of several groups, from the Principal Chief and other tribal officials, to the veterans, elderly, students in their crisp newly made outfits, many in wheelchairs, various societies including various members of my ceremonial grounds. There was a plan for a processional order, which appeared to be very loosely adhered to—I stayed with those associated with our ceremonial grounds, next to my cousin who is current head of the California Muscogee Creek Association.
It was a beautiful, blue-sky morning. Exhilarating to be altogether on those historical grounds, exhilarating to be alive in that particular moment together. For me to be there at that moment had everything to do with Monahwee surviving seven shot wounds at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend after near massacre by Andrew Jackson and his troops, by the efforts of his parents before him, his children, his wife and all who followed, and too, my mother’s Cherokee family who were forced to flee their homes for the west. There we were, shimmering with the gleam of blessings.
We all moved slowly in our groups up the Mall together. It was hot and often the procession stopped but the feeling didn’t stop. It grew. Each group sang or chanted. In the front of our group the Christians sang hymns in the Mvskoke language. In the back, we sang and danced the original Mvskoke songs. That’s how it is but it wasn’t always that way. For years since the Christians had pronounced us the children of devils our Mvskoke traditional ways were vilified, even by many of our own people who turned to the Bible ways. Some of that still goes on today by those who believe they are the official voice and way of the divine. Some were there, but many in that group had come to see that we have to embrace each other just as the Sun and Moon who were occupying the same equinox sky that day I will always remember the inspired singing and dancing as we moved together. I still see joy, and the color red (which is the color of renewed blood, of vitality). And I will always remember the conversations I shared with tribal members as we all met up and talked with new and old relatives. We laid aside any enmities for awhile, to walk together. And I finally got to meet Floy Pepper, Jim Pepper’s mother. She sure drives a mean wheelchair.
(The opening occurred on September 22nd, 2004 in Washington, D.C.
Events occur on many levels. I was present at one of the earliest planning sessions for the National Museum of the American Indian. Then, it was an idea, a series of ideas. That we were meeting together and breathing was a miracle itself in this land of genocidal intentions and means. We helped birth the vision, or was the vision there already to be fulfilled? I wonder how that works. Could be a little of both, that is, the yearning of a spirit to be born as an architectural being, and the need of peoples to have a place of representation on that terrible, sacred land called the Mall, the body of the Capitol Building.
Last Tuesday morning we were there to cap off that dream with acknowledgment, dancing, singing with hundreds of tribal groups and organizations. We’d been preparing for this. The Mvskoke contingent was made up of several groups, from the Principal Chief and other tribal officials, to the veterans, elderly, students in their crisp newly made outfits, many in wheelchairs, various societies including various members of my ceremonial grounds. There was a plan for a processional order, which appeared to be very loosely adhered to—I stayed with those associated with our ceremonial grounds, next to my cousin who is current head of the California Muscogee Creek Association.
It was a beautiful, blue-sky morning. Exhilarating to be altogether on those historical grounds, exhilarating to be alive in that particular moment together. For me to be there at that moment had everything to do with Monahwee surviving seven shot wounds at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend after near massacre by Andrew Jackson and his troops, by the efforts of his parents before him, his children, his wife and all who followed, and too, my mother’s Cherokee family who were forced to flee their homes for the west. There we were, shimmering with the gleam of blessings.
We all moved slowly in our groups up the Mall together. It was hot and often the procession stopped but the feeling didn’t stop. It grew. Each group sang or chanted. In the front of our group the Christians sang hymns in the Mvskoke language. In the back, we sang and danced the original Mvskoke songs. That’s how it is but it wasn’t always that way. For years since the Christians had pronounced us the children of devils our Mvskoke traditional ways were vilified, even by many of our own people who turned to the Bible ways. Some of that still goes on today by those who believe they are the official voice and way of the divine. Some were there, but many in that group had come to see that we have to embrace each other just as the Sun and Moon who were occupying the same equinox sky that day I will always remember the inspired singing and dancing as we moved together. I still see joy, and the color red (which is the color of renewed blood, of vitality). And I will always remember the conversations I shared with tribal members as we all met up and talked with new and old relatives. We laid aside any enmities for awhile, to walk together. And I finally got to meet Floy Pepper, Jim Pepper’s mother. She sure drives a mean wheelchair.
(The opening occurred on September 22nd, 2004 in Washington, D.C.
9/17/04
Here's the poem that was published in the Poetry Against the War anthology, in honor of the September 21st opening of the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington D.C., and my performance on Thursday with DC Poets Against the War. Will check in along the way. Friday night about eleven. Still packing. It's raining in Honolulu. Sept 17, 2004
NO
Yes that was me you saw shaking with bravery, with a government issued rifle on my back. I’m sorry I could not greet you as you deserved, my relative.
They were not my tears. I have a reservoir inside. They will be cried by my sons, my daughters if I can’t learn how to turn tears to stone.
Yes, that was me standing in the back door of the house in the alley, with fresh corn and bread for the neighbors.
I did not foresee the flood of blood. How they would forget our friendship, would return to kill me and the babies.
Yes, that was me whirling on the dance floor. We made such a racket with all that joy. I loved the whole world in that silly music.
I did not realize the terrible dance in the staccato of bullets.
Yes. I smelled the burning grease of corpses. And like a fool I expected our words might rise up and jam the artillery in the hands of dictators.
We had to keep going. We sang our grief to clean the air of turbulent spirits.
Yes, I did see the terrible black clouds as I cooked dinner. And the messages of the dying spelled there in the ashy sunset. Every one addressed: “mother”.
There was nothing about it in the news. Everything was the same. Unemployment was up. Another queen crowned with flowers. Then there were the sports scores.
Yes, the distance was great between your country and mine. Yet our children played in the path between our houses.
No. We had no quarrel with each other.
c Joy Harjo Honolulu, HI 2003
NO
Yes that was me you saw shaking with bravery, with a government issued rifle on my back. I’m sorry I could not greet you as you deserved, my relative.
They were not my tears. I have a reservoir inside. They will be cried by my sons, my daughters if I can’t learn how to turn tears to stone.
Yes, that was me standing in the back door of the house in the alley, with fresh corn and bread for the neighbors.
I did not foresee the flood of blood. How they would forget our friendship, would return to kill me and the babies.
Yes, that was me whirling on the dance floor. We made such a racket with all that joy. I loved the whole world in that silly music.
I did not realize the terrible dance in the staccato of bullets.
Yes. I smelled the burning grease of corpses. And like a fool I expected our words might rise up and jam the artillery in the hands of dictators.
We had to keep going. We sang our grief to clean the air of turbulent spirits.
Yes, I did see the terrible black clouds as I cooked dinner. And the messages of the dying spelled there in the ashy sunset. Every one addressed: “mother”.
There was nothing about it in the news. Everything was the same. Unemployment was up. Another queen crowned with flowers. Then there were the sports scores.
Yes, the distance was great between your country and mine. Yet our children played in the path between our houses.
No. We had no quarrel with each other.
c Joy Harjo Honolulu, HI 2003
9/16/04
Struggling
Tonight I'm struggling with the gulf between the literal and the metaphorical. No need to think there needs to be a bridge as ultimately they're really the same, depends on context and point of view. Reference poetry, music or any of the arts. No, that's not what the trouble is, I'm trying to figure how to make a ladder between lying and the truth. And maybe that's impossible because lies and truth though might both be made out of words, or thoughts or actions also exist on distant sides from each other. Let's just say I'm tired. From a few rough days, from a quick round trip of over 5,000 miles, from too many questions and not enough answers or clear paths to answers. Flying so far so fast is okay for the spirit, but the body lags behind, trying to catch up. The body is made for walking, running, and a little swim now and then. The spirit for flying.
September 16, 2004 Honolulu
September 16, 2004 Honolulu
9/15/04
Release
Today is the official release date of NATIVE JOY FOR REAL! It is available on Amazon.com, CDBaby, iTunes, Napster, and we're working on other distribution. If you have any ideas for distribution, venues, radio stations please advise. It was through one of the readers of the blog that the performance in DC on 23rd of September is happening. So, thank you thank you, or in the Mvskoke language, mvto, mvto. Just tried to upload the beautiful poster image announcing the DC Poets Against the War event at the Provisions Library. It didn't work. Will try again. Thank you C.L. and Provisions Library and the CD Poets Against the War.
Started the morning in a hotel room in Marina del Rey, at 8AM LA time which is 5AM Honolulu time. I was still in a time zone fog and there was a fog still over the marina obscuring the sun. Got dressed to work out and drove over to Washington St. to the beach for tea, and a look at this side of the Pacific. Still grey out, no surfeit of surfers (I couldn't help that one!)--the wavelets rather tame but more than the last time I stood here on this beach looking out to the west. The first time I stood in this spot floated through and there I was again, in the early eighties, parked in Venice Beach for two weeks in a friend of a friend's apartment. It was the second stop on my month of driving around the country alone, though the first few weeks I had a companion, a poet who was recovering from a terrible breakup. She asked for a ride as far as the coast. Those weeks began every morning with breakfast at a little place on Venice Beach for a few bucks. Then writing for a few hours, then walking. It was the longest break I'd every had from my children. They were with their reluctant fathers for a short vacation. I felt selfish to have this luxurious time just for the writing life, but I soaked it up. Afternoons I'd read or walk, never went far. One night we drove downtown for a reading by Audre Lorde, then over to Silver Lake to a bar, dancing. I didn't want to stop. Then after two weeks drove on up the coast to San Francisco for a few days, let my friend out there and kept going, all the way to Seattle, then to Meridel LeSueur's in Minneapolis, then to New York City, down as far as Jacksonville, then the Creek Nation in Alabama, then over to my father's trailer in Oyster Creek, Texas then back up to New Mexico. And a million stories in between. And I was in there somewhere, burning with a need to know all of it. I didn't die, or maybe I died a thousand deaths between then and now where I try to eke out a note tonight after slogging through a script rewrite in a hotel room all day. Time is a wave, a series of waves. I can see it now.
September 15, 2004 Los Angeles
Started the morning in a hotel room in Marina del Rey, at 8AM LA time which is 5AM Honolulu time. I was still in a time zone fog and there was a fog still over the marina obscuring the sun. Got dressed to work out and drove over to Washington St. to the beach for tea, and a look at this side of the Pacific. Still grey out, no surfeit of surfers (I couldn't help that one!)--the wavelets rather tame but more than the last time I stood here on this beach looking out to the west. The first time I stood in this spot floated through and there I was again, in the early eighties, parked in Venice Beach for two weeks in a friend of a friend's apartment. It was the second stop on my month of driving around the country alone, though the first few weeks I had a companion, a poet who was recovering from a terrible breakup. She asked for a ride as far as the coast. Those weeks began every morning with breakfast at a little place on Venice Beach for a few bucks. Then writing for a few hours, then walking. It was the longest break I'd every had from my children. They were with their reluctant fathers for a short vacation. I felt selfish to have this luxurious time just for the writing life, but I soaked it up. Afternoons I'd read or walk, never went far. One night we drove downtown for a reading by Audre Lorde, then over to Silver Lake to a bar, dancing. I didn't want to stop. Then after two weeks drove on up the coast to San Francisco for a few days, let my friend out there and kept going, all the way to Seattle, then to Meridel LeSueur's in Minneapolis, then to New York City, down as far as Jacksonville, then the Creek Nation in Alabama, then over to my father's trailer in Oyster Creek, Texas then back up to New Mexico. And a million stories in between. And I was in there somewhere, burning with a need to know all of it. I didn't die, or maybe I died a thousand deaths between then and now where I try to eke out a note tonight after slogging through a script rewrite in a hotel room all day. Time is a wave, a series of waves. I can see it now.
September 15, 2004 Los Angeles
9/11/04
Politics
It's Saturday night in Honolulu. Could be any late summer Saturday night in Honolulu. It's not. It's the anniversary of September 11th and we're on the verge of a terrible national election. The outcome of this election will demonstrate how culpable voters are--and many people won't vote because it doesn't make sense to vote because it appears that votes don't count due to ballot box treachery or because there's a lack of relevant candidates. I've been following the presidential race like everyone else. Or actually, squinting my eyes, heart and soul because I just don't want to see it anymore. It's a technique I developed in childhood when my father would hit the low end after the high when partying with his buddies, when he'd strike out against the membrane of the world that hurt him and hurt those who loved him. I knew his pain, could see it flare around him, strike the aurora of sadness and blow. I'd pretend it wasn't happening, distance myself to some far planet or star until it broke and rippled into nothingness. And then it would be okay again. It's an old habit I've tried to break because what is is what is and you might as well keep absolutely focused so you don't miss anything at all. I'll never forget the scene in Sharon Doubiago's memoir of growing up in Southern California when a semi tractor trailer loses control and heads straight toward the car she's in. Everyone else screams and hides. She keeps her eyes wide open because she wants to see, to know this thing.
Tonight my friend and her 83-year-old mother are finishing our meal at Willow Restaurant. We're next to the water, under a coconut palm and several flowering trees. The mother is beset by ghosts of old friends and times she's had in that place. Everything's changed, but not really. Plumeria sweetness lifts and falls with light trades. We go back to the buffet line for more curry, coconut cake, and ice cream. She informs us she's voted. I don't say anything because I don't want to argue with her about politics. There can be no true communication here. She like many others are voting for an idea of a place they once knew, once dreamed about--many are intellectually developed people, yet they are going to vote for a man who confuses "feces" with "fetus", who's led us into the worst financial, educational, spiritual deficit in this country, who's made enemies of our world allies, and involved us in wars that will benefit his family and friends. And threatens us with more violence if we don't vote for them. They are running a campaign of fear. Reminds me of the time I was sitting in church as a child, realizing that I had never heard about the devil until I was in the so-called house of God, and the devil appeared in every other sentence. Fear tactics.
It really comes down to common sense. Common sense will tell you the truth. Is this someone you can trust? Who will take care of the people, be a steward of all our gifts? Have we forgotten the qualities of true leaders? I always think of Crazy Horse. He was humble. He didn't make false promises. He took care of his people and would look after their needs, take care of the elderly, the kids, make sure everyone had enough to eat, fought and played hard. He cultivated a far-seeing-ness by looking closely, a near-seeing-ness. He didn't talk much and when he did speak every word meant something. Sometimes I think of our spoken or written words like children. We give them breath as they leave us. They have a similar potential as children. Which reminds me, I keep thinking of the children's tale of "The Emperor Who Had No Clothes" and this leadership crisis we're in as a country seems like a clear case of some thieves trying to pull one over on the public. What happened to picking leaders based on leadership ability? Is that even possible in this system?
So tonight in a punch of panic it finally hit me, and I was overwhelmed by the immensity of the insanity at work here. A light rain feeds the flowers and trees as we walk to the car past a beautiful young man smoking a cigarette while he waits and I am smitten by grief. Then grief followed by anger. Maybe this is what my father went through, an Indian man in Oklahoma who'd lost a country to Andrew Jackson, and then the replacement country to oil and oil money people. What parallels. So what do I do now, now that I see it in all it's outrageous detail?
c Joy Harjo September 11-2004 Honolulu
Tonight my friend and her 83-year-old mother are finishing our meal at Willow Restaurant. We're next to the water, under a coconut palm and several flowering trees. The mother is beset by ghosts of old friends and times she's had in that place. Everything's changed, but not really. Plumeria sweetness lifts and falls with light trades. We go back to the buffet line for more curry, coconut cake, and ice cream. She informs us she's voted. I don't say anything because I don't want to argue with her about politics. There can be no true communication here. She like many others are voting for an idea of a place they once knew, once dreamed about--many are intellectually developed people, yet they are going to vote for a man who confuses "feces" with "fetus", who's led us into the worst financial, educational, spiritual deficit in this country, who's made enemies of our world allies, and involved us in wars that will benefit his family and friends. And threatens us with more violence if we don't vote for them. They are running a campaign of fear. Reminds me of the time I was sitting in church as a child, realizing that I had never heard about the devil until I was in the so-called house of God, and the devil appeared in every other sentence. Fear tactics.
It really comes down to common sense. Common sense will tell you the truth. Is this someone you can trust? Who will take care of the people, be a steward of all our gifts? Have we forgotten the qualities of true leaders? I always think of Crazy Horse. He was humble. He didn't make false promises. He took care of his people and would look after their needs, take care of the elderly, the kids, make sure everyone had enough to eat, fought and played hard. He cultivated a far-seeing-ness by looking closely, a near-seeing-ness. He didn't talk much and when he did speak every word meant something. Sometimes I think of our spoken or written words like children. We give them breath as they leave us. They have a similar potential as children. Which reminds me, I keep thinking of the children's tale of "The Emperor Who Had No Clothes" and this leadership crisis we're in as a country seems like a clear case of some thieves trying to pull one over on the public. What happened to picking leaders based on leadership ability? Is that even possible in this system?
So tonight in a punch of panic it finally hit me, and I was overwhelmed by the immensity of the insanity at work here. A light rain feeds the flowers and trees as we walk to the car past a beautiful young man smoking a cigarette while he waits and I am smitten by grief. Then grief followed by anger. Maybe this is what my father went through, an Indian man in Oklahoma who'd lost a country to Andrew Jackson, and then the replacement country to oil and oil money people. What parallels. So what do I do now, now that I see it in all it's outrageous detail?
c Joy Harjo September 11-2004 Honolulu
9/10/04
Jim Pepper, and You Don't Know What Love Is
Okay, first the contest: The Creek/Caw jazz sax player was Jim Pepper. Look him up if you haven't. His music's hard to obtain but not impossible. Three sent in the correct answer. I choose the first to respond. Some of you are out there pretty late or very early in the morning. (Need to hear back from you with your address, S.C. so I can send you the CD.)
At the moment I feel like a DJ. I did just play a dinner hour jazz set here in my office/studio, because I didn't get to horn practice until late and the neighbors can hear everything. So I played heartbreak jazz over trax for their entertainment. Mostly they get scales in the middle of the afternoon. Ended it with "You Don't Know What Love Is". How many times has that phrase been shouted, in probably every language in the world? There's the tears, the slamming of the door: (car, house, heart) the running away. Then the return, or the grief and then memory. This is the starting point of probably 75% of the songs on the planet, by human, cricket or other creature or plant.
The morning before last I emerged from the dream world as if I had been gone a long time, for years. It was difficult to surface because a friend I hadn't seen since she was camping in the mountains above Santa Fe with her husband and small son appeared to me. They moved back east to her husband's reservation and later I heard she'd died tragically. The story goes she was found dead in a field or on the road after heading to the store with the collected change from a party to buy the next round. This was the first time I'd seen her since. As she drove up my logical self whispered, "but she's dead", but my spirit self brushed off the thought and greeted her. She was wearing beige slacks and a cream-colored blouse. She had shed the malnourished alcoholic skin I'd last seen her in. She shined. Next to her was the memory of the first husband who is still physically here. I was standing at the stage door, horn in hand, getting ready to go out and perform. She came to give me the go ahead, and to remind me not to turn back as she had, from her dream. She was a gifted actor and the denial of that dream had destroyed her.
I've pondered all this since that morning. I recalled her pain, her struggle, her lack of opportunity or ability to seize her dreams, and her friendship to a young, lost Indian student those many years ago. We get through this world with the help of many. We must thank them, give something back.
One way to honor is to continue humbly, with purpose in your path, bearing your gift like fire through the storms, despite setbacks and losses. Another is to help others realize their gifts.
I also realized that to let go what was given you to do results in hell. We grow heaven and hell in the same manner we grow trees, children or dreams. Each starts with one thought, one song, one word, one kindness or hurtful act. And continues the same way.
So, for you my friend, here's a dedication for the evening show tonight, one of my favorites by Mal Waldron, performed by John Coltrane, "Soul Eyes".
Good night.
At the moment I feel like a DJ. I did just play a dinner hour jazz set here in my office/studio, because I didn't get to horn practice until late and the neighbors can hear everything. So I played heartbreak jazz over trax for their entertainment. Mostly they get scales in the middle of the afternoon. Ended it with "You Don't Know What Love Is". How many times has that phrase been shouted, in probably every language in the world? There's the tears, the slamming of the door: (car, house, heart) the running away. Then the return, or the grief and then memory. This is the starting point of probably 75% of the songs on the planet, by human, cricket or other creature or plant.
The morning before last I emerged from the dream world as if I had been gone a long time, for years. It was difficult to surface because a friend I hadn't seen since she was camping in the mountains above Santa Fe with her husband and small son appeared to me. They moved back east to her husband's reservation and later I heard she'd died tragically. The story goes she was found dead in a field or on the road after heading to the store with the collected change from a party to buy the next round. This was the first time I'd seen her since. As she drove up my logical self whispered, "but she's dead", but my spirit self brushed off the thought and greeted her. She was wearing beige slacks and a cream-colored blouse. She had shed the malnourished alcoholic skin I'd last seen her in. She shined. Next to her was the memory of the first husband who is still physically here. I was standing at the stage door, horn in hand, getting ready to go out and perform. She came to give me the go ahead, and to remind me not to turn back as she had, from her dream. She was a gifted actor and the denial of that dream had destroyed her.
I've pondered all this since that morning. I recalled her pain, her struggle, her lack of opportunity or ability to seize her dreams, and her friendship to a young, lost Indian student those many years ago. We get through this world with the help of many. We must thank them, give something back.
One way to honor is to continue humbly, with purpose in your path, bearing your gift like fire through the storms, despite setbacks and losses. Another is to help others realize their gifts.
I also realized that to let go what was given you to do results in hell. We grow heaven and hell in the same manner we grow trees, children or dreams. Each starts with one thought, one song, one word, one kindness or hurtful act. And continues the same way.
So, for you my friend, here's a dedication for the evening show tonight, one of my favorites by Mal Waldron, performed by John Coltrane, "Soul Eyes".
Good night.
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